


The Red Wolf

by skyewardfitzsimmonsphillinda



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Rape Aftermath, Revenge, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-03-31 04:56:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3965209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyewardfitzsimmonsphillinda/pseuds/skyewardfitzsimmonsphillinda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa Stark. The North remembers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Red Wolf

She remembers the days: falling, wind, nothing.

Falling: the mad boy-king and her father, solid as an oak tree, who could not bend.

Wind: news blowing down from the north of a brother and a mother and a wedding that bled.

And nothing: the day Ramsay Bolton undoes her.

 _There is nothing left_.

She remembers, as if of a far-off dream, the way the north wind danced in her wild red hair on warmer days. She remembers childhood games, following Robb and Jon and running to her father when she was frightened. Remembers her younger brothers, kind and brave and forever young, and her sister, fierce and small and bright. Her heart thuds at the memory. But it is her mother—dark red hair, eyes that burned when she looked at Ned Stark, gentle hands that raised Sansa to survive—that is the only memory that still hurts.

There is nothing else left to hurt.

Ramsay Bolton. Theon Greyjoy. The House Lannister.

They have taken everything, and even this home is no longer the north she knows.

The third day after Ramsay Bolton has taken everything from her, Sansa Stark wakes on her blood-stained furs to a cool hand on her forehead.

It is an old woman, her face wrinkled and lined—the woman who, Sansa vaguely remembers, brought her warm water to wash with when she first arrived.

“ _Lady Stark_.” The words are spoken in a whisper.

Sansa sits up straight. Stares at the woman.

Her eyes are Tully eyes.

“It is Lady Bolton now,” Sansa says dully, and the woman’s eyes flame.

Her hand snakes forward, and she cups Sansa’s chin with her hands. “Dear lady,” she whispers. “It is the North’s greatest sorrow that we did not rescue you sooner. And it is our greatest shame that we did not protect you now.”

“What do you want?” Sansa asks, but the woman shakes her head.

“It is what Lady Catelyn wanted,” the woman says, and Sansa jerks away from her.

“Do not speak her name,” Sansa hisses, but the old woman shakes her head, sadness in her eyes.

“They are loyal to you,” she says softly. “They”—

The door opens, and the woman has already stepped back.

“Lady Bolton, I will draw your bath later this morning if you wish,” she says submissively, ducking her head. “Pardon me, my lord.”

Ramsay ignores the woman, and strides towards Sansa. “My father wishes to know if the wolf bitch will bear me a cub soon,” he says, smiling. “I told him if she does not, it will not be for lack of trying.”

Sansa stares straight ahead, unseeing.

“I told him I was coming here to try,” Ramsay says. “So he should listen for your cries.”

This time, Sansa does not make a sound—and after, when she once again lies in her own blood, she closes her eyes as if somehow that will make this monster disappear.

When he finally goes, it is dark outside again, but Sansa does not sleep.

Her own words echo in her head. _I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell, and you cannot make me afraid_.

She rises, reaches for her torn wedding gown, pulls the ravaged furs back over her body, and exits her wedding chamber for the first time.

She walks aimlessly, ending at the high north tower, far removed from all else in the building. One guard walks past, bows to her, and continues without speaking to her.

And then—a small hand presses hers.

“ _Lady Stark_ ,” someone whispers. It is a boy; small and pale, hardly older than Bran was when she last saw him. He presses something into her hand. “The North remembers.”

And then he is gone, and she looks down at a small stone carving in her hand with one red streak of paint over the muzzle. A direwolf. A _red_ direwolf.

Rain is just beginning to fall, clouds covering the stars which had tried to pierce the darkness over the North.

Sansa passes guards on her way back, all dressed in black, all bowing to her, none speaking.

“I cut out their tongues.” The voice jars the stillness, and she whirls around in her ragged furs to see Roose Bolton standing behind her. “That is why they do not speak to you, Lady Bolton. They are not hear to speak, only to serve.”

She does not answer.

She is not expected to answer.

“Not quite true,” Ramsay Bolton appears behind his father, Reek at his side. “Reek cut them out for us.”

“They once answered to me,” she says boldly. “Would they again?”

Ramsay’s face twisted. “They answer to _me_ , my lady.”

“Of course, my lord.”

Ramsay steps away, beckoning Reek to follow, and Roose looks at her sharply.

“Walk carefully, my lady,” Roose says quietly. “You would do well to please your husband.”

Sansa raised her eyebrows, looking pointedly down at her torn clothing. “I know what pleases him.”

Roose smiled slightly, and stepped away from her. “Wise, my lady. Wise.”

The rain had stopped, and Sansa took one sharp breath as she looked towards the moon that hung low just beyond the wall.

“ _Lady Stark_.” Another whisper, another press of her hand. It is a man—no, scarcely more than a boy—in a guard’s black uniform. “The men protected me from Ramsay Snow’s orders,” he whispers. “I am the only one who can speak.”

She stares at him in wonder, and he lowers his helmet over his face. There is a red streak across the black.

“They will answer to you,” he whispers, so softly she almost does not hear it. “The North remembers.”

And then he is gone, and Sansa finds her way back to her chamber.

The old woman has drawn her bath, and Sansa lowers her sore, weary body into the warm water.

“My lady,” the woman says gently.

“What—what is happening?” Sansa says, a note of bewilderment finding its way into her voice at last. “I saw”—

“Shhh, my lady, shhh,” the older woman soothes, her voice as gentle as her hands. “You need your rest.”

“Today—a boy and a soldier”—

“Yes, Lady Stark. They answer to you. We answer to you.”

“What about Ramsay? Who answers to him?”

“The Bastard’s boys answer to him,” the woman answers. “No one else. The North knows its own. They have loved Starks and they loved a wild red-haired Tully woman who bore five northern children, but they have no love left for Boltons, nor loyalty either, my lady. And you—oh, you, lady, are Tully and Stark and wolf, and they _know_ you.”

Sansa catches her breath. “Men are coming,” she says quietly. “Men are coming to kill Ramsay Snow and make me Wardeness of the North. Baelish is sending them.”

“Men are slow,” says the old woman. “You know that. I know that. Your mother knew it. If you are Lady of the North when those men arrive, they will only cement your position with an army. If Ramsay the Bastard is already dead by then, there are men who would try to make you queen.”

“Those are dangerous words to speak,” Sansa says. “Those are words that could get you killed.”

The woman laughs as she pours warm water over Sansa’s long hair, a baptism after the long pain of those three days. “Those are words to get Ramsay killed,” she says. “You, dear lady, have come home to rule.”

“I have come home to reclaim,” Sansa says sharply. “And to live. I have no interest in ruling.”

“Spoken like a Stark,” she responds. “But now we need you to find the Tully in your heart, Lady Sansa.” She reaches out and cups Sansa’s face with her wrinkled hands. “There is strength in you. There was strength in Catelyn.”

“You knew her.” It is not a question.

“Aye, lady.” The woman’s voice falls to a whisper. “I am Seetha, handmaiden for the house Tully, and I held your mother’s hand as she gave birth to her first daughter. I held you in my arms then, when you were a babe but hours old, and I promised Catelyn Stark that I would fight for her daughter until my last breath. Now the North waits only for your command.”

Sansa rises, water spilling down over her smooth, now-bruised skin. “Tomorrow,” she says, and there is strength in her hollowed-out voice once more. “Tomorrow we take back the North.” She closes her eyes, and when she opens them, the old woman is gone, but near her—upon the blood-stained marriage bed—lies a black dagger with a red wolf’s head engraved on the handle.

///

The day dawns red, and the old woman visits, silently, to dress Sansa in black as Ramsay watches.

“I will tear that off of you tonight,” he says, smiling, and Sansa does not reply.

Beneath her dress, the black dagger is strapped to a thigh that will never wear the bruises of a man’s cruelty again.

“Walk with me, my lord,” she says, ducking her head submissively.

“Of course, my lady,” he responds, taking her arm, his fingers digging into her wrist.

They walk past guards, all with their helmets down, all wearing black, all bowing, none speaking.

“Does it bother you that they do not speak?” he asks her.

She looks at them, looks at the red on all of their helmets. “No, my lord,” she answers. “Not at all.”

They reach the north tower to find seven guards waiting. One man is holding Reek, one is holding Roose. Ramsay drops her arm in shock, and Sansa steps towards the guards, drawing her dagger.

The old woman emerges from behind them, armed with a dagger.

“Take the bastard,” Sansa orders, and two of the guards grab her gaping—and now struggling—husband. “Where are the Bastard’s Boys?”

“Subdued, my lady,” Seetha answers, and Ramsay writhes.

“Bind Bolton’s bastard son,” she orders.

“You can’t do this,” he shouts. “You _can’t_. I’ll have you killed. I’ll have you torn apart. I’ll”—

He is silenced by a blow from one of the guards.

She leans forward, her face inches from his. “I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell,” she says, her hand closing over his neck. “And you cannot make me afraid.” She drops her hand and turns towards the woman. “Seetha.”

Seetha draws her blade. “For Lady Stark,” she says softly, driving it through Roose Bolton’s heart.

The silence is broken by Roose’s dying gasp and Ramsay’s scream—and then by Reek’s terrified moan.

“Release Reek,” Sansa orders. “Throw Roose from the tower.”

The slave falls to the ground, and the guards do as she asks, Roose’s body crashing to the ground below.

“Reek, you will stay,” Sansa orders coldly. “Watch.”

Ramsay is shaking, and Reek looks at her in terror and confusion.

“Reek,” she says softly. Dangerously. “You have known me since I was a pup. Now watch, as the pup becomes the wolf. Watch, and remember Ned Stark who protected you, Catelyn Stark who raised you, and Robb Stark who was a loyal brother to you. Remember Arya and Bran and Rickon. Remember what you did to them. To us. To _me_. And remember—remember Theon Greyjoy. Remember as you watch.”

She walks towards Ramsay slowly, each step as measured as the steps she took into the forest to sell her soul on that brutal wedding night. Today, she is his demise: _falling, wind, nothing_. The day he falls, the day he loses his family, the day Sansa Stark undoes him.

“Ramsay Snow,” she says, and his body jerks violently at the words. “They told you I would be the fire to your ice. There is more warmth in the Wall than there is me.” She raises the dagger, and her voice is as wild as the North Wind.

Her arm drops—the blade plunges, twists—and Ramsay falls backwards from the high north tower, his still-bleeding heart the only thing that remains in her cold outstretched hand.

And when she opens her mouth once more, Lady Stark’s voice carries across the courtyard, and every last man and woman turns towards the sound of the last direwolf as she stands above them:

“ _The North remembers_.” 


End file.
